


sanatio

by Aizu (ratpenatu)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociation, Domestic, Language of Flowers, M/M, Non-Explicit, Post-Recall, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpenatu/pseuds/Aizu
Summary: There are times when Jack can't think about anything else but all the time that has been taken from them. In those moments, his younger self seems like a different person, his actions baffling, maddening, or downrightunbelieveable. It's hard to turn off his brain once it goes down this familiar spiral of self-loathing.Gabriel is usually kind enough to help him through this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for reaper76 week, day 1 "how we were" - _history/decay_
> 
> a companion piece to this [stunning art](http://omaano.tumblr.com/post/155906504468/this-piece-goes-with-ratpenatus-amazing-little) by my dear [omaano](http://omaano.tumblr.com/) <3

 

“Do you like them?”

***

 

Silent darkness of three in the morning disturbed by the silver glow of the full moon and mask-muffled breathing.

 

Bouquet of dahlias, freshly cut, dark purple blurring into black red of an 10-years-old never-headed warning.

 

Bone-deep exhaustion making hands shake until they clench around a mug of untouched lukewarm milk.

 

Feeling of dread, source unknown, solution unknown, hopelessness fueling the need to stay awake and alert.

 

Nostalgia, yearning for the youthfulness lost a long time ago, time wasted, time stolen, bitter bile of regret swallowed.

 

Steps, quiet, purposeful, a message, I am coming, it’s okay, it’s me, don’t be alarmed.

 

Hands on shoulders, sliding down, embracing, squeezing, weight on top of the head, heavy sigh so loud in the dead of night.

 

Not warm, not cold, but soft, familiar, grounding.

 

A gentle tug, a request, a demand, a person you don’t say no to and a person who did it, once.

 

Knees creaking, wince hidden by a mask, hand leading the way to the bedroom.

 

Two daffodils, two days old, pure-white, yellow-sweet, sharing a single vase, two men, black and white, red and blue, in a single house.

 

Doors left open, a sign of worry, frantic search, a squeeze of a hand to reassure and apologize.

 

Maneuvering, a push on the shoulders, softness of the bed still feels like a novelty, a reminder that sends a jolt of alarm through tired body.

 

Hands on the visor, release buttons pressed with welcomed familiarity, rapid blinking as a way to keep the depthless void at bay.

 

Removing the rest of the maks’s apparatus is easy, black form-fitting shirt and grey washed-out sweats are soon to follow, worked up nerves still a long way from calming.

 

One, two steps away, a moment of panic, a blind grab forward, no, don’t go, stay, don’t leave, not again, not now, not ever.

 

A tug backwards, back to chest, a moment of silence, I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I did it to you, please don’t do it to me, too.

 

Distant memory of peonies, how they looked, deep red, tinted neon light, rustling of petals, foolish naivety, naive ideals, honor for all, honor for one, honor for no one.

 

Roaming of hands, a scar on the chest, long and never-gone, a triumph over death but death never leaves empty-handed.

 

Skin, not warm, once warm, not cold, beloved, adored, too much, not enough.

 

Six years of leaving poppies on a grey stone that meant nothing.

 

Arms, wired tight, thighs, thick and wide, deep sigh, rise and fall, there are some things that never change.

 

Head falling back on the shoulder, cold nose and chapped lips pressed to a bare throat, a whole-body shiver and a smell of nothing at all.

 

A caress, a hand sliding up and up, scars, stitches and memories, pride and heartache, a beg for forgiveness already given.

 

Features of the face known by heart, a self-conscious attempt to shy away and a firm but gentle plea to stay.

 

Another chance, a quiet assurance, fingertips counting exposed teeth, a whole-body hug, mouth muttering love oaths into a not warm, not cold skin.

 

A desire to give: red roses and second, third, fourth chances.

 

Hope for the morning and a few hours of undisturbed sleep.

 

Shuffling and wriggling, soft bed and softer blankets, a tangle of limbs, a chest for a pillow and silence instead of a beat.

 

Hand on a head and fingers between hair, stress-white, thin but soft, soothing, familiar, grounding.

 

Loved and beloved, now and then, decayed and revived, cut flowers given again and again and again.

 

***

“Yes, they’re beautiful.”


End file.
